Only Human
by Firebirdie
Summary: Bastila has been taught all her life that attachment leads to the dark side. She's already fallen once. And she knows the crew will be there to catch her if it happens again—which is part of the problem. The crew, however, doesn't see it that way . . .


**Only Human  
**

**A/N:** One line of dialogue borrowed from Mass Effect 3. Spot the reference, get an internet cupcake. Spot the super-sneaky layers to the reference, get a whole internet.

**o.O.o**

Revan's off tinkering with HK-47, Zaalbar left for Kashyyyk two days ago, Juhani is on a mission with T3-M4's assistance, and Bastila is under attack.

Mission's straw wrapper flits past her ear from across the brushed metal table. She barely blinks. "You'll have to do a bit better than that," she says.

"Aw, c'mon, the wrapper was bent!"

"Just be thankful it wasn't a spitball," Carth says lightly.

Bastila shudders. "Oh, I am."

Mission's smile is worrisome. "Good idea, Carth, thanks—"

"In my day we'd've skipped the flimsi projectiles entirely and gone straight for a food fight," Jolee says in tones of utmost innocence.

Bastila massages her temples, lips thinning in disapproval. "I'd really rather we just ate the food," she says.

"Seconded," growls Canderous.

Typical. Her only ally is the thug.

"Whatever," Mission sniffs. She sips at her bubbly acid-green drink, sticking her pinky out.

Bastila rolls her fork through the noodle dish before her. She should be far more affronted about her companion's childish behavior. She should . . . but all she can summon up is a vague, irritable fondness. Too long in their company, evidently.

. . . She shouldn't even be here. She ought to be back at the Temple, meditating, working through the nightmare of the past few weeks. Coming to terms with everything. With _Malak,_ and the Star Forge, and the thousands who died because of her failures.

All she wants to do, though, is sit in the sunlight streaming through the window of the cafe, eat her noodles, and listen to the group's familiar, friendly bickering.

She scowls and straightens her spine, laying down her fork. "I need to go back," she murmurs.

"They only just served us!" Mission says. "And you've barely touched your food!"

"I remembered an errand," she says sharply. "Jedi business. Please excuse me."

She half-rises before Mission casts her a hurt look and says, "You don't have to lie if you don't wanna hang out."

"That's not it at all!" she protests.

"Then what is it? You're all twitchy whenever we get together and it's like you'd always rather be somewhere else—are we just not that interesting or something? Do you just not care?"

Bastila stares at her, frozen, a thousand conflicting emotions warring for dominance, a thousand contradictory responses catching in her throat. She can't simply brush the girl off. She could lie, let her keep her assumptions, however erroneous, however hurtful . . .

She can't.

Bastila sits down, slumping. "I care," she says. "Too much, it would seem."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mission demands.

"It means that you have become far more important to me than I should have allowed," she bites out. "It means I've become dangerously attached to you. All of you."

"Attachment may be forbidden," Jolee says, making a face as if he's just bitten into a moldy sandwich. "But since when has a social creature ever been able to avoid attachments? We evolved for them. We're hardwired for family, kid."

Bastila somewhat resents evolution, then. "It's unfair," she says—an observation, not a complaint, because Bastila Shan does not complain. _Much,_ a voice that sounds a bit like Revan's whispers at the back of her mind. Scowling, she says, "How can something wrong feel this . . . right?"

Canderous snorts, drink coming out of his nose. He curses, still guffawing, and wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his sleeve. "You sound like a bad romance holovid," he rasps, smirking.

"Thank you for your input, Ordo," Bastila says icily.

"Don't think I haven't noticed how you act around our favorite Sith Lord. You are the definition of a bad romance holovid."

"I do _not_—!"

"How's about we all just simmer down?" Carth drawls, as Mission stuffs three sliders into her mouth at once to stifle her giggles. Carth turns to Jolee. "You were saying?"

"I wasn't saying anything," Jolee insists. "I'm just a crusty old man. I'm nobody's advice columnist."

"Yeah, and given how your one true love panned out, that's probably a good thing," Canderous says.

Jolee raises an eyebrow. It's a singularly dangerous eyebrow.

Canderous shrugs, but backs off.

"Anyway," Carth says loudly, "Jolee's right. You're only human, Bastila."

"But I'm not," she says, focusing on arranging her utensils to perfection. "I'm a Jedi."

"I might not know much about Jedi, but I do know that . . . well, I like you now better than I did when we met. And I'd like to think it's down to our influence."

Bastila's head shoots up. She fixes him in a flinty stare. "Excuse me?"

"He means you were really uptight and kind of a downer to be around at first," Mission puts in, still chewing.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Bastila mutters.

"See, that would've been annoying way back when. Now it's just cute, because we all know you like us."

"Except Ordo," Bastila says, but she's smiling despite herself, and Canderous raises his glass to her before downing the last of the drink.

"See?" Mission crows, jabbing a finger towards her. "You've grown a sense of humor! Is that so bad?"

Bastila heaves a sigh. "No. I suppose not."

"So what's the problem with having friends? We've all got each other's backs. That's how it works. I'm not seeing the issue here."

"It interferes with my focus," Bastila says, without rancor. Because Mission is correct: they all have her back. For better or for worse, they are hers, and she is theirs. And if she can express her worries to anyone, it's the crew of the _Ebon Hawk_. She continues, "Attachment makes rational decisions more difficult. If it goes too far, it can lead to possessiveness, and then jealousy."

"Most people manage to avoid it just fine," Carth says, frowning a little. "Well. Most of the time."

"But the consequences of _failing_, for me, are far worse," Bastila counters. She swallows. "You—you all saw what I became. When I fell. Now imagine that, but of my own volition, not Malak's."

Carth shakes his head vehemently. "Something I've learned these past few years—you can't live your life expecting the worst of everyone. Sometimes you've got to have a little faith."

"I don't expect the worst from everyone," Bastila says. She grimaces. "Just from myself."

"Well, there's your problem, princess," Canderous says. "Someone like you, you try _way_ the hell too hard. At everything. You're a perfectionist. And you've already done the worst you possibly could do, so now you're obsessed with never doin' it again." He folds his arms, leans back in his chair with a satisfied expression. "Only reason you did it in the first place was that some power-mad _di'kut_ pushed until you snapped."

"What's to say I won't . . . snap, again?"

"You. And that reinforced durasteel ramrod you've got jammed up your ass."

While Bastila splutters in indignation, Jolee signals the server droid for their bill. (Not that he'll be paying, oh, no, he's just an old man with nary a credit to his name. Occupational hazard of living under a log for a few decades.) He settles himself more comfortably in his seat. "Bastila," he says, quite seriously, "Love is risky, and terrifying, and wonderful. It's dangerous, I won't lie, but it's worth it. And I'd say you're self-aware enough to work through any issues as they come up."

Bastila looks at him, lips pressed together, as the server droid offers the billing datapad to her and she signs off on it without paying much attention. Part of her—the part that still longs to be a good, Code-following Jedi—still sees him as a mad old hermit who ran from the Order in a fit of pique because it would not enable his self-flagellation. But the part of her that teases Canderous and smiles at Carth and considers Mission to be her charge, or near enough . . . that part trusts him, and his experience, and his sincerity. He is a mentor, if an ambiguous one, and she cannot deny the role he has played in making her who she is, even in these few short months since the _Endar Spire._

"Are we talking about all of us," Bastila asks quietly, "or about me and Revan?"

"Either. Both." Jolee gives a sad smile. "Kid, don't throw away what makes you strong and happy."

She takes a deep breath. "It frightens me."

"Nobody ever fell in love without being a little brave," Canderous says.

Bastila stares. "That's . . . quite profound, actually," she says, unsure what has possessed the man.

He shrugs. "Just something I heard once. Take it or leave it."

Bastila stands up slowly, pushes her chair in. She lets her fingers slide from the cool metal seat back to hang loose at her sides. "I'll think about it," she says.

"Just don't overthink it!" Carth calls after her as she walks out of the cafe.

She scoffs to herself. "No such thing," she says under her breath.


End file.
